


tear down these walls from me

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: Éowyn isn't quite settled in the White City.





	tear down these walls from me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turtlebook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlebook/gifts).



The walls of the White City are high and wide, enough to block all but the strongest of winds. Even then, it's a light breeze that wafts overhead, barely enough to lift her hair; not enough to feel it on her face, to turn towards it and hear her dress ruffling, smell the horses or baking or blood (never blood again, please, never again).

She hadn't longed for home, unwanting of the role that would claim her if she ventured there, but the city is as much a cage as her grief had been, and before that, her despair and anger and the expectations that bound her. But instead of bars, there is stone; instead of being able to see and unable to reach or to act, she is unable to see more than a sapling, a flower, a messenger.

 

Faramir is perfunctory with her, formal and adoring as if he cannot believe his own luck, and is afraid that she may vanish at any moment. Sometimes she feels as if she might; sometimes she dreams of going riding, or running in a field, or simply seeing the sun, free of the last of the smoke and debris. But the only way out is blocked by heavy doors and men who guard them and bow to her like she's someone else, and she just can't. Faramir looks at her the same way, sometimes, like she's distant, so far out of reach that there's nothing to do but stare. For a moment, here and there, he slips, and he is less gentle; he narrows his eyes like he's trying to figure her out, and she can almost see him trying to make what he's thinking into words and then dismissing them, as if they're not things she's meant to hear.

 

She only realises the smoke hasn't cleared and the clouds still hang heavy, bringing with them the smells of ash and iron, when Faramir joins her in the gardens, his hands dirty and rough after so many weeks of not training. The scents cling to him too, his worn green cloak fits him more rightly than the clothes of court, and even the air around him is different; charged and alive in a way that she almost thinks she knows what he'll do before he does it - touch her arm, lean in to whisper in her ear. She can tell that he's armed just from how he stands, not that his weight has changed but that he's more comfortable, more himself.

 

"I'm coming with you," she says. 

He nods. "We'll be sleeping rough."

She smiles and takes his hand.

 

Her bag is already packed and tied to her horse when they reach their home, and a green cloak is laid out on their bed.


End file.
